Galadriel and Finrod: a scattering of plum blossoms
FA 465

"When I closed my eyes, the scent of the wind wafted up toward me.” ¹

She smiled. Dream or osanwë, she was glad to hear the well-loved voice. She drew a deep breath full of Aman and home and memory, and finished the verse:

“Flitting from plum to pine, the nightingale sings of starlight upon snow.” ²

Her brother laughed. “So, as disparaging of my verses as you always were, you do remember.”

She opened her eyes. Above her arched the boughs of a great plum tree; in full bloom, though the grass around was lush and green. Before her spread a mountain meadow of the southern Pélori; but for Anar shining above, so like to the summers of her youth that she was struck with a sudden pang of loss. With a swiftness born of much practice, she buried the pain and turned her back on the meadow to face Findárato.

“It is a sister’s duty to be critical of her brothers,” she said archly. “Valar only know what you all would have turned out like without me.”

He laughed again, and her heart was filled with gladness at the sound. For so long he had seemed increasingly weighed down by care, his letters filled with weariness and doubts: the protection of his realm and people, the loss of their brothers, the scheming of their cousins, and the ever-constant war within his fëa between his duty as king and his desire to wander.

“Though, truth be told, your verses were far from the worst I’ve ever heard, in Aman or Endorë.”

“I don’t doubt it, fairest Artanis. All of Arda would be the less without your spirit and strength.”

They laughed again, and she took the time to really look at him: He was dressed lightly and plainly, as they had when adventuring in their youth, along this very mountain range. The diadem of Nargothrond was missing, as was any other sign of his kingly office, yet the emeralds of the ring of their House glinted in the sunlight. His loose golden hair stirred in the breeze and his shoulders were relaxed as he stood beneath the sighing plum. Though he laughed and smiled, she could see the weariness and resignation in his countenance, and yet he seemed more at peace then she had ever seen him.

For no apparent reason she was struck with an urgent sense of wrongness, as the moment when a pleasant dream turned to nightmare. What was this? Instinctively, she reached a hand to his face, but stopped before touching. Osanwë did not carry sensation, and contact could banish a dream. Whatever else this may be she dare not name, though her fëa knew.

She turned back to the meadow, Anar now beginning to fall behind the peaks, casting the clear pond and field of wildflowers where she and her brothers and her cousins had played and fought and lived in slanting red light. Findárato came to stand beside her, and they shared the view in silence until the first of Varda’s stars kindled above.

“I haven’t thought of this place in years,” she finally said.

Findárato hummed. “I’ve not found a place to equal it’s beauty in Endorë. Though, I believe that is more owing to the love and the memories shared here, than anything else.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, looking at the meadow surrounded by forested mountains, she saw them: her brothers shouting and laughing together in some game, the rules and goals of which known only to them; her mother fretting over her when she returned from wandering the woods, braid disheveled and the hem of her gown full of mud; and her father, her dear, wonderful father, sitting back and laughing at it all as he handed out their meal of fresh-caught mountain fish. Then the vision was gone, and the field was barren, save the waving poppies.

“I have been wondering what this is,” she said. From the corner of her eye she saw him turn to her in confusion. “Dream or osanwë. But it is neither, isn’t it?” She turned to face him squarely, eye to eye, and with slight bitterness said, “This is a farewell, is it not, dearest brother.” Though she always buried her pain after, she was never one to do less than acknowledge its arrival head-on.

His gaze softened with fondness and his smile now was heartbreakingly gentle. “For a time, dearest sister; though you know that my fëa will always be with yours.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and she closed her eyes, involuntary tears leaking out to spite her: his hands were warm.

“Nay, do not fret, beloved. I am at peace with my life and do not wish you to feel pain on my account.”

Her eyes flashed open and she was on the brink of snapping at him for the idiocy of that wish, but he suddenly looked above them, as if hearing his name called. Following his gaze, she saw what appeared to be one of Manwë’s great eagles circling high above them. However, when she found herself caught in it’s gaze she knew that it was the Lord of the Winds, himself. She felt the urge to shout defiance at him, as she had never done before, even when she had turned her back on Aman.

Feeling her tense, Findárato tightened his hands upon her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Artanis,” he said, and for the first time she heard the weight of kingly authority ring in his voice. “Do not throw your sorrow upon the innocent. Save your ire for when and where it is truly due.”

Then his hands fell away and gaze softened again. “Sister, I do not wish for your memory of this time to be one of hurt. That is not why this grace was given to us. I want to leave you with hope and peace, and especially with my love. And, even though it may be selfish of me, my dreams of Endorë.” He turned his gaze back to the meadow and resignation once again overtook his countenance. “I see now that my realm was not meant to last as an inheritance, and am heartily sorry for the troubles I have placed before our nephew, but Nargothrond has always been more than a city in the hills. And it is that which I leave to you.”

He cupped her cheek and his smile was heartbreakingly gentle once more. “Have hope, O wise Lady of the Golden Wood.”

And between one breath and the next he was gone.

“Findárato!”

In a panic she looked about, but she was alone with the plum tree and her memories. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was really asking for, but wondering why everything must be taken away from her. The curse of the Exiles, indeed.

“Peace, child.”

She opened her eyes, and standing where her brother had been was a Man. He appeared to be in the prime years of his life, yet his eyes were ageless and wise, sorrowful and kind.

“I say again: Be at peace, Galadriel, daughter of Wisdom. You are not Cursed, you are Alive. You have lost much, and yet more shall be give. And again, more shall be lost and given. This is growth. It is the way of life, in the Blessed Realm, as well as the Middle Realm. Only Ilúvatar’s Halls are unchanging. You must grow, child, before you are ready to go there. Your family and loved ones are learning this on their paths, and you must learn it on yours.”

As he was talking, he reached up and broke off a branch from the plum tree, which immediately grew back again. He then began weaving the branch into a crown. Hard and inflexible as the wood was, it worked itself as easily in his hands as willow or vine; the blossoms multiplying until he had created a crown full of delicate, sweet-smelling blossoms. He placed it on her head.

“I cannot say whether your path will be harder than theirs, or anyone else’s, but it will be long and difficult. So, have hope, Galadriel. For your brother’s death is not the end of all things; nor, even, would yours be, should it chance.”

He stood looking at her serenely, and her earlier despair slowly eased as the scent of the blossoms enveloped her. She looked back at him suspiciously. She knew, somehow, that it would be pointless to ask who he was. And yet…

“You call me Galadriel.”

He smiled as if the statement, or her attitude, amused him. “That is the name given to you by your Heart, is it not?”

She closed her eyes and looked away, unwilling to talk of hearts with this strange Man-who-obviously-wasn’t-a-Man. Still, she felt more at peace in his presence. The knowledge of Findárato’s death still hurt, but its bite was less sharp; and she knew that when she finally heard the tale in full that she would be able to bear it with more equanimity. Or, at least she hoped. She smiled wanly at the irony.

The Man made another amused, vaguely pleased, sound. “Yes,” he said. “You are ready to continue on your path, now. Keep hope, child. And open your eyes.”

She opened her eyes. The taste of tears and the scent of plum blossoms lingered.

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1 - First line taken from “Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman”, by Haruki Murakami. This was inspired by the SWG October 2019 challenge: “Start to Finish”. The challenge was to pick a famous first line from the list and begin your story with it.

2 - “Flitting from plum to pine, the nightingale sings of starlight upon snow.” For good or ill, this (attempt at) verse is my own. In keeping with the origin of the challenge selection, the imagery here is mostly Japanese: Plum blossoms and nightingales (uguisu) both represent the coming of spring, hope and rebirth; pine represents longevity and good fortune, with a homophonetic meaning of “waiting”. These themes all weave throughout the rest of the piece, in however unsubtle a manner.

All Elvish words are Quenya.
osanwë - thought-speech
Pélori - main mountain range in the Blessed Realm
Anar - Sun
fëa - soul
Endorë - Middle Earth